Fallout Assiniboia 2
by tbguy1992
Summary: A major redo of my previous Fallout Fanfiction
1. Introduction

War. War never changes.

The destruction of the world in 2077 when nuclear fire was used in hate for the first time since 1945 caused an innumerable amount of lives to be lost, and the destruction was enough for civilization to be thrown back to a bygone era. Some survived: great Vaults built to house the few that were selected to preserve humanity, those that were not directly attacked, and the citizens of occupied Winnipeg, Canada, a city either overlooked of divinely protected in the two hour war. Having already suffered a devastating conquest by a proud, arrogant and fearful America, the survivors of the war that the US created sought not only to survive, but triumph, building a new nation: Assiniboia.

Peace, Order and Good Government, the calls of ancient Canada, became the rallying cry of Assiniboia, expanding with the aid of military and economic resources few others have, but as they pushed forward, the secrets of the Wasteland and those that inhabited it began to make themselves felt. Hidden away in a specially designed Vault were the remnants of an elitist, egotistical and advanced American leadership slumbers and schemes, seeking to reclaim the land they once considered their own. Further south in the old American Midwest around the husk of Chicago, a splinter group of the Brotherhood of Steel, seeking power and expansion that their old order informally forbid, pushes north. Having already have engaged in battle with Assiniboia and fought to a draw, they prepare to break the nation, having already laid waste to Fargo for the crime of technology possession. To the far north, incased in a mountain of ice that rose in Nuclear Winter, an even greater danger sleeps waiting for the clock to strike Midnight and to emerge on the unsuspecting populace of the world.

In the Southwest of old Manitoba, an area known for hardy pioneers and bountiful harvests, the small town of Melita seemed so far from all this, just another outpost of the expanding Dominion. It was here that a young man named Patrick Morrison lives, caring for his younger brother and grandparents, working a life of hard work, steadfastness and determination in a world that demands that and so much more. But the trials of survival are about to come, and life in Melita, and Assiniboia, is about to change


	2. Chapter One

**Fallout Assiniboia**

**Chapter One**

It was tough to be a farmer, Patrick Morrison knew all to well. Weather, insects, rodents, and sheer luck was necessary to even carve a sustenance living from the land, though the land in what was once known as South-West Manitoba was rich and fertile. It meant that even in years of bad weather, he was still able to make more than enough for him, his grandparents and brother with enough to sell for a decent profit to feed the towns nearby.

Pat nodded at the green shoots of the corn and wheat he was growing, and turned around his Sleipnir, an eight-legged horse named after the ancient Norse mythological creature.

"Alright Demon," he said, as the beast snorted. "Let's head back home."

The mutated creature snorted again, and began a fast walk to the farmstead where the Morrison clan lived, only three miles North from the small town of Melita.

A few minutes away from where they started, Demon stopped, sniffing the air, and shuffling to the side.

"What is it boy?" Pat asked, finally managing to get the Sleipnir to hold still. The equine held his head straight ahead, his ears rapidly flicking both forward and back to catch the sound of anything nearby.

The farmer followed where his mount was looking, and saw a large black creature move around.

Pat grimaced. "Damn radgophers," he muttered. The Great War of 2077 had resulted in the mutation of most of the animal species in the world to some degree or another, his Sleipnir being a good example, as where the two headed Brahmin that were ranched in the area. The radgophers where about the size of a small dog, and with a voracious appetite to match. Three or four of them could eat five acres of crop in a day, and the holes and underground passages they made could shift entire houses. Fortunately, if the old books were true, they seemed to be slower than their ancient predecessors, and easily frightened. However, they also gained a taste of meat, and when a pack of them was starving, they would kill anything, no matter the danger, to feed.

The farmer wasn't going to let the fact that they would as soon eat him as his crops get in the way of removing them from this life. It was about 75 meters away, far enough away that they wouldn't notice anything dangerous to them. He pulled his hunting rifle off his back, and, aiming carefully, fired.

The bullet flew straight and true, and impacted the radgopher in the side, and killing it instantly. With a grin, Pat dismounted and walked over, pulling out a knife to cut off the tail. Every tail was worth an Assiniboian Pound, and he sure as heck wasn't going to give up free money.

The rest of the trip back home was uneventful, which was nice for once. There were times when the Wasteland would throw almost everything at you, from radgophers to mutated coyotes and once even a yaou gui that meandered it's way from the north-east. Pat brought Demon to a halt near the old house that his great-great-grandfather Morrison had managed to hold after the Great War, and the wave of radiation sickness, death and the brutal nuclear winter that followed. By now, this land had been the hands of the same family for nearly 400 years, and had been productive for almost the full time. Sure, some Morrison's came and went, but there was always a child or two that wished to work the land.

Dismounting Demon and locking him in his pen, Pat returned back to the house. He stepped through the door to see May Morrison, his paternal grandmother, cooking.

"Hey Grandma, what's for supper?"

May Morrison, the epitome of a kindly old women, her face brown and wrinkled from a lifetime of work helping her family survive, looked over to her grandson. "Bighorner stew tonight. Got some fresh cuts from a merchant going by on the 83 to Virden,"

Pat shook his head. "Bighorner meat is expensive Grandma. Can't afford to buy it all the time."

She chuckled and laughed. "At this rate, your going to take after your grandfather, haggling and penny pinching."

Pat shrugged. "Just so you know. And, where is my grandpa?"

"By the radio, playing with it as always."

Patrick nodded, and walked into the living room where Harold Morrison fiddled with the radio in the corner.

"What's going on Grandpa?" Pat asked, taking off his Brahmin skin hat and kicking the dust off his boots.

The 87 year old man didn't respond, instead continuing to grumble as he fiddled with the ancient electronics.

Pat cleared his throat. "I said, what's going on!" he nearly yelled. At last, the old man turned around at the loud noise.

"No need to yell, Patty," he replied, before turning back to the radio. "The ABC is coming in weak, and all I can get is Brandon General Radio right now, all the music and crap they play. But I want the damn news!"

Pat shrugged his shoulders, walking over to his grandfather. He flipped a switch on the back, the one that turned on the long range receiver. Like that, the radio went from static to clear broadcast, the tail end of a song from 2054 blaring through.

"I was going to figure that out," the old man grumbled, but he sat in his old rocking chair and prepared to listen to the news.

"From the Assiniboia Broadcasting Corporation in Winnipeg, this is the Six O'Clock news for May 8, 2218. Good evening, I'm Brad Horshaw.

"Foreign Minister Mack Jake stood in front of the House of Assembly today, and announced that negotiations with the citizens of Vault 63 has been put on hold again. The American Vault in old North Dakota have declined the current offer of the Dominion for protectorate status, claiming that they are doing fine on their own, despite attacks by unknown raiders.

"The leader of the Independent State of Brandon and the Syndicate Crime ring made a radio broadcast today denouncing the most recent attempt at his assassination. The man known only as 'The Boss' blamed dissident groups in the city-state, aided by Assiniboia in the attempt on his life. The Dominion has yet to confirm or deny the rumours.

"The ice ghouls in the glacier town of Riding Mountain are asking for assistance from the Royal Assiniboian Mounted Police in the disappearance of thirteen of their mutated kind, all having vanished in the past three months. The RAMP detachment at Lake City has replied that, due to insufficient resources, they have yet to assign a full time squad to Riding Mountain.

"Merchants traveling on the TransCan between PorLaPra and Carberry are being advised to maintain vigilance, as an unknown group is engaging and attacking any travelers they can. The first reports of this band of raiders came in three weeks ago, when the only survivor of a Winnipeg Trading Company caravan arrived in PorLaPra.

"And that is it for the news this evening. Stay tuned for the weather, and the continuing adventures of 'Captain Mark of the Mounties,' as he faces one of his greatest threats yet: General Legrad of the American Annexation Force! This is Brad Horshaw, for the Assiniboia Broadcasting Corporation."

Pat turned down the volume of the radio as the familiar ditty of the ABC played. "Do you want to listen to Captain Mark?"

"I do!" a twelve year old boy shouted, running into the room from upstairs, skidding to a stop as he charged into the living room. Pat smiled as his younger brother excitedly jumped up and down.

"Alright, I'm leaving it on Zack. But right after, we have to turn off the radio to save batteries."

The young boy nodded his head, and sat in front of the radio to listen to his favourite radio show, the pre-war police officer turned into a resistance fighter. While the story was lacking, in Pat's opinion, it was enough to entertain those that enjoyed the occasional violence that ABC was allowed to broadcast.

Pat returned to the kitchen, where Grandma May was dishing out the stew for four. "You sure do like your brother, don't you?"

Pat nodded, sitting at the table. "Dad told me to look after him, so I do."

May shook her head. "I wouldn't be too concerned, you know. It's fairly safe here, and, so long as he works hard and stay's out of trouble, he should be fine."

There was a long silence between the two, interrupted by the snoring from the elder male Morrison, and the excited gasps and cheers of the younger one as he listened to the brave Canadian hero defeat yet another evil villain.

"Why won't you tell me about Dad, Grandma?"

The elderly women paused, and shook her head. "I guess because I wanted to save the little innocence you had when he did die, and only give it to you in pieces."

"I'm old enough now grandma. I'm farming the land like Grandpa, and I'm in the Militia. If that doesn't mean I'm old enough…"

May Morrison smiled. "I know you are, and you deserve the truth. I guess I wanted to protect your innocence, as it is such a valuable commodity these days." She sat down in the chair across from Pat, and set her tea towel down. "Your father, Calvin Richard Morrison, was a brave, adventurous young man. I almost knew from the moment he began to walk that he wouldn't want to stay here and scratch a living from the soil. That is why he joined the army as a scout at 16 when he first could, able to explore as much as he wanted to. The letters he did send back made it seem like he was happy at last, happier than he ever was here. Your grandfather wasn't happy about it, as he was the only son he had. But he found your mother, a woman with such love and care, and she became another daughter to us. Calvin would return on leave every few months, just long enough to be with his wife and have a supper, then he would have to leave again."

She sat silent for a moment. "When the letter came from Fargo ten years ago, when you were Zack's age, it was devastating. Your Mom, heartbroken, gave birth to your brother, and lingered on for a while longer before she too left this life to join her beloved husband."

The familiar strains of "O' Assiniboia," the anthem of the Dominion, began to play on the radio, announcing that national programming of the ABC was complete for the day, and now local stations would take over. Zack groaned now that his favourite show was over, but he was running outside before anyone could say anything.

Patrick was about to say something about the radio being left on when it suddenly began making a loud racket. BEEEEEZZZZTTTT! BEEEEEZZZZTTTT! BEEEEEZZZZTTTT!

"Oh shit," Patrick exclaimed, standing up and going over the radio. Grandpa Harold was suddenly awake, his grouchiness at being rudely awakened replaced by terror at the Emergency alert.

"This is a Raider attack alert! This is a Raider attack alert! Melita and Area is under hostile attack from raiders! All Militia men are hereby called up by order of Mayor Jamison and the RAMP detachment, and ordered to the town office as soon as possible with all weapons they can muster. All those not in the militia are advised to find a safe, secure location and wait for the all clear!"

As the message began to repeat, the siren established in the middle of Melita 200 years before began blaring out. Though it can barely be heard most days, today it was a muffled roar, enough for everyone to hear it. Pat was already almost out the door and grabbing the service rifle that was only to be used on Militia business, along with the leather armour that could deflect sphere and knives, and maybe slow down bullets.

"Pat! Please be careful!" Grandma May called out, standing on the step.

"I will," Pat replied, grabbing an excited Demon from his pen. He knew that the siren meant danger, and was prepared to race his owner to the rescue. "Everyone else better get to the cellar and wait! Take the radio too for news!" With that the young man was up on his horse and galloping south on 83 Highway to Melita.

The siren continued to blare over the long distance, and as the miles closed between his farm and the town, the sounds of gunshots, screams of terror and whoops of joy became quite clear. Patrick grimaced, and urged his eight-legged beast faster.

In fifteen minutes he was at the gate that was erected on the north end of Melita in case of such an emergency. Already several men, holding their weapons at the ready, where guarding it.

"Militia!" Patrick called out to them. Though they were prepared to shoot, they say that he was alone and it was easy to see no one was following, so the guards opened the gate in time for Patrick to keep racing right through. Soon after, charging down the Highway, and taking a turn onto Front Street, he was at the Town Hall and swinging off his steed, pulling the panting beast behind him. He could see a crowd of thirty five to forty men, half with their own Sleipnir's, half without, crowded around the Mayor, and the town's Christian Minister Reverend Lloyd Jamison, and two RAMP officers, one mounted and one not, who were organizing the hastily called up defenders.

"They snuck in on us!" one man shouted. "Took the river up!"

"They will pay, them sonsabitches!" another man replied.

The mayor tried to shout over the mob, but when it became clear that he couldn't, he put two fingers in his mouth and gave a piercing whistle, getting everyone's attention .

"Alright Militia, they are just trying to get over the dyke and the highway gates on the river. The RAMP officers are already down there holding them off, so I want half of you, the ones under Lieutenant Xavier, to head down there. All the Calvary men, the ones under Lieutenant Joseph, are to be ready to move out to reinforce or defend another part of town when need be. Alright, move out! And may God protect you, and deliver us a victory!"

Everyone cheered, while the men without horses began to jog away, following the RAMP officer Xavier down to the river. The rest, Patrick included, formed up near their Sleipnir's, and began to wait.

Reverend Jamison (he preferred to be known by his religious, not his political title) walked up to Patrick. "I thought you would be back at your farm, Morrison," Melita's leader exclaimed.

"If they were coming from the North, then I would have stayed. The radio said from the South, so I thought I could leave Grandma and Grandpa alone," Patrick replied.

The Mayor nodded. "Fair enough. And I know Harold was a crack shot back when he was in the Militia, I'm sure he could plug a few of them. I am happy that you have joined us, and that God will aid us."

Patrick nodded, and the Reverend-Mayor walked away to talk to another man of the group. Pat sighed as he listened to the muffled gunshots, and cries and cheers coming from the south. It was good enough that he was here to defend the town, but it was better to not actually have to fight…

Lieutenant Joseph reached down for the radio on his hip, as it began beeping. He lifted it to his ear, listening and replying.

"Looks like the raiders are pulling back to the east," the RAMP officer said. "It was only a small band, 15 or so. The arrival of the militia men must have scared them away."

The crowd around Patrick began to cheer, and he joined in. At least today they were fighting smart raiders, the ones that didn't fill themselves full of chems before attacking or pillaging. Those bastards wouldn't stop until either they were dead or the chems ran out. Of course, if you were a smart raider, you wouldn't attack a town with only a handful of guys.

The cheering died away, and soon the men sent away to help the RAMP officers were marching back. Most of them were pleased, while a few, the hot heads, were disappointed that they didn't get to kill another human being this time.

"Stupid bastards, thought they could attack us," one militia man muttered next to Patrick.

"But why did they? If they ran the moment they saw the militia, then they clearly didn't have a goal for Melita. What were they doing?" Patrick wondered aloud.

"Not a clue, but once the started leaving, another group of raiders were coming from the north, and another from the South, and they seemed to have wagons and slepy's with them."

"The north?" Patrick repeated, to which the man nodded. "That's where I'm from!" he exclaimed, making some of the men turn from their conversations to the other man.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God…" Before anyone could say anything, Patrick was back on Demon, and charging out of town. The guards opened the gate as the lone rider came barrelling through, though they were surprised to see the same man they saw twenty minutes ago racing into town now racing out.

Once Patrick was on the Highway, he looked in the direction of the Morrison farm, and his heart sank. Thick smoke filled the sky, all coming from the house and barn that he lived and worked in. Pat urged Demon on, and the Sleipnir, though snorting disproval at more running, went full out.

Patrick reached the farm, and pulled Demon to a stop. Flames licked up the side of the old house and barn, and the sounds of Bhramin bellowing in panic made a shiver run down his back.

The young Morrison walked up to the house, and to the cellar door. The cellar was a completely concrete encased structure, so the flames wouldn't reach it and it kept the inside cool. The door was already opened, and Patrick walked up to it.

"Grandma? Grandpa? Zack?" Pat called, his voice getting hoarse from the smoke.

"Patrick…" a weak voiced called from inside, and Pat dashed in. He saw his grandmother, bleeding from the leg and from a gash on her head, propped up in the corner. Beside her Harold Morrison lay unmoving, a gun still clutched in his hands, and a few shells littered on the floor. Two bodies of partially clad raiders, though stripped of armour and weapons, were next to the door, and a trail of blood up the stairs showed that someone else that was wounded had already left.

"Grandma!" Pat called, rushing over to her. "Grandma!"

"Pat… the raiders… they attacked right… after… you left…" she gasped, shaking from the pain and shock at what just happened.

"Where's Zack?" Pat asked, tears coming to his eyes.

Grandma May tried to say something, but instead began coughing. "Oh Pat… it hurts…"

Patrick snapped out of his grief, and tended to his grandmother. He ripped off a piece of her dress and tied it around her wound, while he reached for a stimpack on the shelf…

"They… took it… all…" May weakly explained. "Aid, food, bullets…"

Patrick reached back to a secret shelf he had dug out of the concrete, where a few spare stimpacks were kept. He picked one up, and injected it into his grandmother. She gasped at the sudden prick, but calmed down, her breathing getting steadier and the blood clotting up as the chemicals in the medicine quickly worked to stabilize the patient.

"Patrick!" a voice called outside. "Patrick!"

The young man turned around as three men, all with service rifles, ran into the cellar. "Patrick! What happened?"

"The fucking raiders attacked! What do you fucking think?" he screamed out, to the faces Lieutenant Joseph and two other militia men.

One of the men, the towns medical expert Dr. Burnbank, went over to May Morrison, and hastily checked on her condition. "Pulse… 98, breathing normal… I think she will be okay." He then looked over to Harold, and felt for his vitals and shook his head. "He has passed on, unfortunately."

"What about Zack? Did anyone find him?" Patrick asked, hoping that there was a positive answer.

"We haven't seen him," the RAMP officer said. "The barn and house are still too dangerous to investigate though."

"The raiders took him," May replied. "They took him… oh my God… they took him!" The doctor turned back to May, and injected some Med-X, to keep her from panicking which could only result in dangerous results.

Patrick's blood went cold. "Those raiders… what will they do with him?

Lieutenant Joseph reached for his radio. "Whatever it is, it won't be good. I'm putting out a missing persons call, and I hope the Mounties we sent to follow the raiders will find out what happened." The RAMP man left the cellar, and made his call.

The doctor and the other militia man helped May up, and walked her out. "I'm taking her back to the hospital to ensure her health," the doctor told Patrick, and carefully the two men lifted May out of the concrete bunker.

Patrick fell onto the floor, alone as the muffled sounds of the flames above, and the murmur of men outside, were nothing to him. Even when the clanging bell of the fire wagon arrived, Patrick didn't move. Tears escaped from his eyes, and quiet sobs filled the empty room, as the crushing burden of what just happened fell on him.

"I shouldn't have left…" Patrick moaned to himself, inbetween sobs. "Why did I leave?"

"Because you thought you had to," a gruff voice replied, making Patrick turn around. Reverend Jamison stood inside the cellar, arms crossed. "You wouldn't have known that the attack on Melita was a diversion, as the raiders and God kept it from us."

"What?" Patrick replied.

"We caught one raider, and they told us all what happened. Melita was a diversion, and other groups were going to raid the farms. Said they were looking for young boys and girls, but he died before he would tell us why." The mayor stepped forward, anger on his face. "Five other farms around the town were hit, and the parents were killed, and the kids are gone."

Patrick shuddered. "But I should still have been here, and stopped them."

"You would have died as well."

"But it's better than letting my family get destroyed without me!"

The mayor shook his head. "No. God has willed it that you survive, for He has a mission for you to do. This town has a mission for you. We know that you are one of the bravest men in Melita, and I think it is safe to say that you are the best hope we have to find our children again. This town needs your help."

Pat looked down, over to where the lifeless body of his grandfather lay, and back up to Reverend Jamison. "Why not one of the RAMP men?"

Jamison shook his head. "They are unable to, as they are here for our protection. They would need approval from Winnipeg before they could, and it could take weeks for the approval to come. By then, it will be too late."

Patrick sighed. "Well, I have nothing else to live for…"

"You have your brother, and your Grandmother. I spoke with the doctor, and he said she will be fine, though maybe with a bad leg. Do it for them. If for no one else, do it for your family."

Patrick rose up, and wiped his eyes and nose. "Alright, I will do it."

Reverend Jamison smiled. "And I have something for you." He reached into the Brahmin skin bag, and pulled out a large object. "The Pip-Boy 3000A. A personal computer for your wrist, one issued to everyone in the standard Vault-Tec vault. I want you to take it."

Patrick carefully took it. "How did you get it?"

"My family was in Vault H, just north of Winnipeg. It was passed down to the eldest for many years, but I have no children, and I can't think of anyone else better to use it."

Pat nodded, and slipped the surprisingly light device over his left arm. It fastened itself shut, and turned on, giving a cheerful chime as a classic Vault-Boy appeared on screen, waving to Patrick.

"Unfortunately, the map data our family had been collecting for years on it was lost when a memory device went on it. All that is left is the topographical map. You will have to enter towns and locations in it manually when you arrive in a new place. I did put in the location of a possible place to start looking, Waskada. The town was overrun by Raiders a few months ago, though the RAMP or Army have yet to get rid of it. Most likely the best place to look."

Patrick shook the Reverend's hand. "I just need some supplies and weapons, and I will be on my way." he began climbing out of the hole, and was getting Demon ready to ride.

"Then God Speed, Patrick. God Speed."


	3. Chapter Two

Fallout Assiniboia

Chapter Two

Patrick and Demon was back in Melita within a few hours of having left. By the time he got back, word had quickly spread that he was going to go and try to find the raiders who had wiped out many of the farmers to the north of town and took the kids. Main Street, which sloped down into the Souris River valley and with shops on either side, was a buzz. A few people cheered, a couple shouted encouragement, some others nodded respectfully. Pat knew that he was going out on a dangerous mission, but he had to do it. He could not bear to let Zack be taken away.

He dismounted from Demon, the Sleipnir nickering softly as he was tied up to the hitching post in front of the large building that was, and still is, the largest store in Melita.

"Just got to get some supplies, then we can go," Pat replied, but the equine had already become more interested in the grass that was sprouting up on the old side walk than his owner. He shook his head, and walked into the store.

The owner, Marty Isowich sat behind the front counter as Pat walked in. He glanced up, and smiled.

"I had a feeling you would be coming," he shouted, as Pat walked to the isles. Before the War, the shelves would have had all sorts of packaged and to-be-prepared food, but most of that had been used up in the months after the war. Now, the grocery store was a general store, devoted to selling everything from locally grown food to guns produced in Winnipeg.

"I just need some supplies, and I can be going," Pat replied. "I can't wait to long."

"Oh, of course not," Marty replied, sitting up. "In fact, I have a few things here that you could use."

Pat looked over as the shop owner pulled up a basket, full of different things. "Food, stimpacks, a 10mm pistol and rounds, a couple knifes, a water canteen and…" Mart started, before reaching down and pulling up a tightly bundled package.

"Leather armor?" Pat queried.

"Made by Lenny over at the Blacksmith shop, using only the best leather from the finest Brahmin skin."

Pat looked at all of it, and shook his head. "That has got to be over 700 Pounds. I can't afford that."

Marty chuckled. "Well, quite a few well wishers have already been in and put up 450. And with this," pulling out a fifty Pound banknote with the grimacing face of the first Prime Minister of the Dominion, George McGregor, plastered on it, "I think that should just about cover it."

Pat's mouth dropped open. "That's… No, I can't do that."

"Yes, I can. After all, those kids are some of my customers, and I want them back to buy." Marty's smile displayed a genuine honesty. "I know I can be a penny-pinching, cheap sonvabitch at times, but I know a good investment when I see it." He picked up the basket and handed it to Pat. "Plus, who knows what it will cost to deal with my colleagues in other towns."

Pat smiled, the first time since just after the raider attack. "Thank you."

"Just get the kids back, okay?"

Pat nodded, taking the basket. "I will do my best."

"That is all we ask for."

Waskada turned out to be a ride that took the rest of the day, and Patrick was forced to camp out a mile or two from the raider camp. The road, an old provincial highway, was terrible, with the pavement having cracked, broken and even disintegrated in the over one hundred years since the War of 2077. The few weeds that survived the post-war cleansing of the world struggled to emerge through the old asphalt, but gave a bit of green to the otherwise dusty expanse.

Sleeping a few hours, Patrick woke up the next morning to see a bright dawn to the east. Opening up his pack, he pulled out some of the Brahmin jerky strips he got, and started chewing on them. After a few bites, he saddled Demon, and continued to the town.

Waskada was once the center of the small oil industry of old Manitoba, and the smallest incorporated municipality in the province, with no more than 200 people ever. To this day, old pump jacks, frozen in place since the last oil ran out in 2059, surrounded the town. The oil boom that kept Waskada alive since the 1950s at last ended, but the arid land, and increasing costs for everything from machinery to fertilizer to fuel made farming even more difficult. Even before War of 2077, only a few stubborn residents remained, trying to etch a life from the soil. However, the war, and the fear of the radiation from Minot, forced the evacuation of much of the town.

After a few years, it became clear that the radiation barely touched the area, so settlers returned once more in 2104, and began farming again. Assiniboia would come in 2169 when most of the old South-western Manitoba agreed to join the new nation. However, its location close to Saskatchewan and North Dakota made Waskada a prime target for raiders. An increasing number of attacks, deaths and destruction ultimately dwindled the population down again, until the final attack in 2207 captured the last few holdouts and either killed them or made them slaves. But despite the protests from Melita, the RAMP nor the Army had sent any forces to deal with the raiders, instead simply tolerating the loss of another town as the price to pay for peace. But Winnipeg never did understand that by giving an inch, the raiders would take a mile, and now the attacks against Melita and the many farms that surround it continue even stronger than ever.

And now Patrick was stepping straight into the nest of the beast, to find his brother and the other kids. He was the only one to do it, he knew, because after him, would anyone else care enough, or have the drive to do it? Patrick knew the answer, and he didn't like it.

Tying Demon to a pole that used to carry power lines a mile north of the town, Pat pulled out his new 10 mm pistol, and the service rifle that fired the same calibre of bullets, and pulled on the leather armor he was given. It was risky, just being the only person walking in. But at least he knew how to hunt, years with Grandpa having taught him all he needed to hunt animals. And humans, or at least raiders, are simply two legged animals. Ones to be hunted to extinction.

He walked toward Waskada, pistol on his belt, and rifle on his back. His old hunting knife was on the other hip, just in case. The old trees in the town that were planted by the first pioneers, long past growing leaves, but still standing despite the passage of time, loomed over the town. His limited Militia training taught him that the high ground was best, but raiders didn't care for tactics, or any strategy but brute force. That would give him an advantage.

As he came closer, he could hear laughing and shouting. He paused and crouched low, and carefully studied his surroundings.

Straight south of him was a bunch of old trees that surrounded a large brick building, which looked like a school, complete with the two story gymnasium. It was, most likely, the one building in the town to be large enough to hold most of the raiders, with the exception of the old ice rink, which, if his map was right, was on the other end of town.

He carefully made his way closer to the trees, and he could tell that the school was, indeed, the raider base. Tents of patched cloth and animal skins filled the old baseball field, while the main building itself had graffiti all over it, all of which screamed "We are Badass, and We will Kill You!" a half dozen or so men and women were around the buildings, all with some form of weapon, be it spear, sledgehammer, axe or the few lucky enough to have guns.

Pat at last made it up to the closest tree, and even from there, he could hear bits of conversation.

"So, the fucking kids are dealt with… got a few, sent the rest on. Yeah, that was a fucking brilliant idea… the militia wasn't a problem at all," some raider boasted to others.

Patrick scowled. Shit, he was to late to find all the kids. He carefully pulled the rifle on his back, but didn't fire yet.

There was a sharp inhale, and then a giggly sort of laughter. "Shit… this Jet is good stuff!" one of the raiders bubbled. "I feel like I'm flying…"

Another raider grabbed a small canister of what must have been this new drug, and inhaled it himself. "Oooooooohhhh… yeah…."

Patrick nodded to himself. Excellent, they would get drugged up enough that they shouldn't even notice that they were dead, if it came to that.

One of the raiders, the one that didn't take the Jet, stood up. "Fuckers. Why you get hooked on that shit? Whiskey and booze is good enough to get buzzed."

The first Jet taker scowled. "Oh c'mon, you shithead. Don't lie to me, you flew before. C'mon, do it again!" He got up, and forcefully pushed is way to the tee-toller. "Take it!"

"Fuck off!" the second raider shouted, shoving the Jet addicted raider to the ground. He sort of dazed, but before he could jump up, it seemed as if his body began to sag, and he resigned himself to laying on the ground. Must have been the after-effects of the drug, Pat thought.

The raider just shook his head, and walked to the tree line, almost straight at Patrick. The Assiniboian vigilante ducked under the tree, and watched as the raider, with only a knife on his belt, and a whiskey bottle in his hand walked toward him, unsteadily making his way over the dead grass and junk that had piled up in the 131 years since grass last grew naturally. Pat pulled out his pistol, because that would be easier to threaten the raider than a more bulky rifle.

The raider stopped a few feet away from Pat, turned toward a tree, and pulled down his pants to relieve himself. Patrick grinned, and took the chance, jumping up behind the raider. He clamped his free hand over the raider, and stuck the pistol to the brain of the raider.

The raider gasped, and tried to swear, but Patrick held onto him too tightly. The raider was so surprised that a foul smell started to waft up.

"Okay, bastard. I'm only going to say this once, so listen. I'm looking for some kids that were taken from Melita yesterday. Now, you tell me what happened to them, and you can keep your head. If you try to scream for help, or don't help, I'll send you to whatever fucking God or spirit or volleyball you worship." Patrick pulled his hand from the mouth of the raider. "Your choice."

"I… I… wasn't part of the attack," the raider gasped. "I was told… to… stay here and…"

"I don't care if you jack off to your gun right now," Patrick scowled. "I only want to know where the kids went."

The raider gulped. "They were split up, half in half. some to this fucker from… Branson? Brantford?"

"Brandon?" Patrick offered.

The raider nodded. "Yeah, Brandon. The Syndie guys up there and that. They took half the kids, the best ones that they wanted. Paid us with drugs and booze and shit." The raider was calming down a bit now. "The rest are locked up in the big house over there. Trained to join us, or die. That's how we are all here, you know."

Patrick loosened his grip on the raider when he heard that, knowing how cruel the raiders would treat the kids to make them join. The pistol moved away from the temple of his hostage. It was just long enough for the raider to try to reach for his knife, turn around and take a swing at Pat. The edge of the knife caught the leather armor, but didn't go through. As the drunk, uncoordinated raider tried to swing again, Pat levelled his pistol at the raider, and shot three times, all three impacting the skull of his attacker. Blood, brains and bone flew out and splattered over the trees behind him, and the man crumpled to the ground. Dead.

"What the fuck?" A voice shouted on the other side of the tree line. Pat looked up to see one of the drugged raiders look over, and the two made eye contact.

"Oh crap," Pat muttered, as the raider started shouting at the top of his lungs.

"Intruders!" the raider barked out, trying to pull out his spear. Pat couldn't afford to let them all gang up on him, so he pulled up his twelve shot pistol, and fired four more shots at the radier. Two missed, one hit the left leg, and the last shot impacted the chest with a brutal, wet slap. With a groan, the raider fell over.

But now more were coming. Pat wouldn't have time to reload his pistol, so he quickly put in his holster, and grabbed his 24 shot rifle. He lifted it up, and braced it on his shoulder as two more raiders, one guy with a spear and a girl with a pistol, came charging up to Pat.

The Assiniboian fired at the gun wielder first, as he would be the more dangerous threat. A burst of five shots nearly cut the raider in two through the middle, but not before the chick managed to get a shot off. It did hit Pat, right on the left side of his abdomen, but the armor once again prevented any major damage.

The spearman threw his spear, which harmlessly landed five feet beside Pat. As the raider tried to get his fallen comrades gun, Pat took three shots, and all three hit the raider, and he went down with a gasp.

Pat paused for a moment, and looked around. In less than three minutes, he had already killed three people. Of course, they were chem indulging, homicidal murderers that wouldn't hesitate to kill him, but it still was a life that he took.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a rifle cartridge, quickly pulling out the one already in the gun and slamming the other one in. He pocketed the partly used cartridge, as he could hand load it later. But having all the bullets he could when he was going to charge into enemy territory was better than having to do it when he was going to be in trouble.

He rushed forward to the site where the three raiders were before. Just as he reached the spot, bullets began impacting the ground and whizzed through the air, signalling that, no, Pat wasn't done yet.

He crouched low behind a large log that had been used as a bench, and carefully looking up, he could see three raiders, two with guns and the third with an axe, approaching his spot.

"Come out, you fucker!" one shouted, aiming his hunting rifle where Pat was. "Not gonna put up with this bull…"

Three bullets through his chest stopped the loud mouth in mid-sentence. Pat smirked. "Well, turns out you are."

The two other raiders dashed right at Patrick, the one firing his weapon haphazardly. However, when he pulled the trigger, and nothing came out, the raider slowed down to a pause while struggling to reload it. Before he could even get the second bullet in, Pat had fired his weapon and knocked the raider down with a bleeding leg and shoulder.

An axe crashed through the dead wood less than a foot away from Pat's face. "Heeeere's Johnny!" the raider called out, as he tried to pull the axe out of the wood.

Pat grabbed hold of the axe, and, when the raider had lost his balance trying pull on it, the Assiniboian kicked the log at the raider, knocking him down. Pat jumped up, and, pulling out his pistol aimed it at the raider.

"Holy shit man!" the raider cried out, panic and fear in his eyes. "Who the hell are you?"

"One really pissed off brother," Pat replied, and fired the gun, making the raider lay still.

Pat paused, and sighed. He brought his pistol back up, and started reloading. With that, he looked up at the school, and took a deep breath. The rest of the raiders must be in there.

He quickly ran up to the school, and, standing beside the door to what was the library, he carefully opened it, and slid inside, hoping to not attract any more attention.

Inside, Pat began creeping through the halls. He could hear a bunch of talking, some chains clink, and a gun shot.

"I've fucking had it with these useless pricks!" one deep voice bellowed. "Kill that fucking Assie all ready!"

Pat's blood ran cold as he realized that they were talking about him. He dashed to the side, where a janitors closet stood, and hid inside. The door was broken, but if he could hide long enough to allow them to split up…

Four racing foot falls echoed through the empty hallway, and he saw two of the raiders run by to the Library and outside, while the other two ran the other way to the main entrance on the south side of the school. Patrick took a short sigh of relief, and slipped out of the closet. Now that they were split up, maybe he could deal with both separately, though only once he found the kids.

Patrick quietly walked over the broken linoleum tiles and past the mounds of junk and stuff that the raiders had piled everywhere. Various classrooms all had old mattresses or sleeping bags on the floor, which must have been where the raiders slept. Another room had a bunch of computers, only two or three of which still had glowing green screens. Patrick shook his head, thinking that most likely the raiders wouldn't know how to use them.

But then again. Patrick took a quick look in, and noticed no one was there. He crept up to the first one, and, using the little bit of knowledge he had of Old World computers which he and his brother Zack had been taught in school, he tapped the enter key. He sat his rifle down and turned on the machine. Much to Patrick's surprise, there was no password on it, which definitely made this easier. With a grin, Patrick started tabbing his way through all the files. Many of them were leftovers from when the school was used as such, including a few reports and papers from 2077. Patrick sighed. He would never know the names that were put on here, and what happened to them in the aftermath of the end of the world.

At the very bottom of the list of files was something that caught his eye. He selected the last file, which said it was made only a day ago. His heart sank when he saw who wrote it.

_To whoever finds this, my name is Zack. I was taken from my home in Melita and locked up here. I overheard some of the guards saying that we were being split up. One group is being sent to Brandon, the other into the old US, to a place I think is called Steel. I'm being taken to_

And then then message stopped. Patrick scowled, and closed his eyes. He found some clues, only for them to be nearly useless. And where was this steel place?

"Only one way to find out, Patrick muttered, picking up his gun. A little chat with the head honcho here.


End file.
